


Der gute Kamerad

by Hyenada (orphan_account)



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: And A Crapload of Paperwork, Beware For Here Be The Land of Spoilers, Character Development/Study, F/M, Ideological Content of the Concerning Kind, M/M, Other, Period Typical Violence | Sexism | Homophobia | Antisemitism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11234094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Hyenada
Summary: There was once a man who took a bullet three millimetres from the heart and—The Events of Season 2 and then some, through the eyes of everyone's oh-so-dependable Sturmbannführer Raeder.





	1. verhören

**Author's Note:**

> So, this thing got deleted. It shouldn't have. Now it's back, and edited and I do hope, better. 
> 
> Again, big big big thanks to the Discord server for TMITHC for saving copies of my work so that this could make a comeback, as well as giving me further inspiration. Y'all rock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erich Raeder Interviews Juliana Crane

 

 

The youth of the Greater German Reich did not have much in the way of free time as the ordinary adolescents in the Americas understood the concept; the notion of a personal hobby was, and had been for a good while, been constricted to what the government felt appropriate. Interests were adjusted accordingly and the pursuit of idle pleasures was, especially during the war, frowned upon.

Everyone had a purpose and to better fit that role, it was one's duty to prepare. Such deference came before passive hobbies.

Erich Raeder had been a product of such an upbringing if for entirely different reasons and it had long since affected his attitude to work. The life of a military intelligence officer included many responsibilities, too many to merit the inclusion of unnecessary recreations and, much like in his adolescence, there was no more time for games.

Normally, such rarely stolen moments of frivolity were all the more exquisite, today, however, there was to be nothing of the sort.

The woman from the Pacific States arrives on a Sunday morning. Escorted by military police from the airport to the Race and Settlement Main Office building in Manhatten for examination, then to the headquarters of the American Sicherheitsdienst to be held in their investigation wing. She arrived silently and with her came several dozen pages of detailed paperwork, from the interview conducted after her plea for asylum to preliminary reports to an invoice from the Japanese authorities, to a report from immigration and the lengthy, detailed ethnic and health documents from RuSHA. Then there was the intelligence report from Joe Blake, and the SD's own individual records.

By that time, Sturmbannführer Raeder had only just arrived at work. Ordinarily, such hours were taboo, even illegal in the Greater Germanic Reich, but the Schutzstaffel was a machine that never stopped -- such was the Führer's decree, and that extended to Erich, unmarried and unconcerned, who worked seven-day weeks and was relatively content that way.

Sundays merited an early finish, that was true, but he still arrived at work well before eight. The Obergruppenführer, who had responsibilities beyond the office, arrived at nine sharp on weekdays and remained on-call throughout Saturday, absent Sunday, entrusting his men to keep him informed. Before the Ambush, Erich been active personnel; out on the streets serving with the brownshirts on the ground participating hands-on in investigations. These days, he worked solely on the behalf of the Obergruppenführer and the Obergruppenführer alone. It was a testament to his loyalty. Apparently.

Erich knew the full truth, but it was best to leave such things be. He was desk bound for the foreseeable future on medical grounds and that was the unspoken, obvious limitation that would persist until... Well...

(That's the freighting part)

Nonetheless. He is the buffer between the rest of the building and the Obergruppenführer himself and that meant paperwork, but most of all, it meant _dealing with things_. 

What runs through the office goes through Erich before landing at the Obergruppenführer's desk; from important assignments to the translation of embellished German records, it's Erich's job to ensure that John Smith is not troubled by anything remotely unnecessary and, in the event of something worthy of his attention occurring, making sure that it as simple as possible, that he has the information he needs, the tools, the means. For all intents and purposes, he was the eyes and ears of their superior, and more often than not, the voice. When circumstances of the Obergruppenführer's utmost interest occur in his absence, it was Erich who dealt with them.

Therefore, interviewing a poorly-graded asylum seeker from the other end of the continent might seem odd, inappropriate even. 

And Erich Raeder admits -- he has no idea what John Smith could ever want with... _her_.

Granted, Erich had many duties and most of them were not easily definable, but they were all necessary. His skills in the now defunct Department B of the Ausland-SD had made his transfer to the American Sicherheitsdienst an easy and profitable one, for both sides, and while many people might look at Erich and see him as a glorified secretary (although in his opinion that was Major Klemm's job) there was a still some skill involved. There had to be.

This woman from the Pacific States... She should be a RuSHA problem. Erich was borderline on risking an outburst before he read the additional paperwork.

 

**POI TRANSFER ORDER**

Sectioned 5f34b for Connection to Resistance Activities, subsection 5. _  
Investigational Interest: Man In The High Castle._

 _\-- Under The Authority of the Führer Adolf Hitler And The Authorisation Of The Reichskommissariat of America, The Jurisdiction Of_ **The SS American Race and Settlement Main Office** _Hereby Transfers Person(s) Of Interest:_   **Crane, Juliana L.**   _Immediately To The Jurisdiction Of_ **Main Security Office of America, New York Sicherheitsdienst Office** _Immediately Pending OMB No. 1615-0067_ _\--_

Person of Interest Detained Under Section 5f34b Pending Release Condition Precedent. _  
_

Transfer Ordered Under: 5f34b In Connection w/ _Man In The High Castle 1955-1962 Investigation_  
Person of Interest: **Crane, Juliana L.** Transferred to Command At Order Imperative // Awaiting Investigative Consultation At Order Imperative  
To be Conducted By:  **SS-Sturmbannführer Raeder, Erich, D.** At Order Imperative.

_Ordered Hereby Under the Authortiy of the Rightful Ministerial Commander John. T Smith SS-Obergruppenführer and Chief of Police, Chief of the American Main Security Office, Deputy/Acting Reich-Protector of The Reichskommissariat of America.  
_

_\--_  

 

 

Juliana Crane was a road-weary woman slightly younger than he, visibly wounded, and as careful as they come. Erich examined her for a good few minutes through the observation window before flipping back the file held in both hands and exhaling, thoroughly displeased. Under his uniform, the two most painful of bullet scars burn in agony. He ignores the sensation.

It takes a lot of effort to be polite.

Especially when Erich realises, first with subtle appreciation, then downright concern, that she's playing the same game.

It's all in the body language, in the way she speaks. If Erich had been anyone else, the Major perhaps, she'd have overwhelmed him -- easily. There is a practised degree of clever fear that portrays her as the perfect pitiful victim, and it hides the intelligent manoeuvring behind the facade. It's real to some degree but also warped sufficiently to protect herself. As they back and forth, it only becomes more obvious. Erich cannot get anywhere, at least on tape, without resorting to methods that would be inappropriate for someone of his perceived skill. That alone is enough of a warning.

He's met his match in this woman, and that is worrying.

So he tries to take her off guard, rattle her. "How many times were you sexually involved with Joe Blake?" It's as nonchalant and vacant of a question as he can make it, and he takes some pride in her response; a show of astonishment, even confusion. Erich blinks, doesn't smile even though he wants to. "Be specific."

"I wasn't sexually involved with him at all." It's prompt, but he can see the gradual realisation in her eyes, the recognition of what he means, is implying.

"That's not the information we have," Erich flicks back, almost absently. 

Indeed, Lawrence had a lot to say in the last report regarding Joe Blake. Erich is surprised at the vulgarity of it. Lawrence Klemm was not an unprofessional man. The whole incident must have rubbed at some nerves because this report was... detailed.

Miss Crane's face suddenly hardens as she adjusts her posture, and Erich can practically see the mask of indifferent confidence mask everything of any potential hazard, the subtle movement of the jaw. She's angry. Either that Erich had put her off or that Erich would even insinuate such a thing. Possibly both. Erich is used to the latter -- at the half-furious, half-embarrassed looks the younger women give the officers at the SS club, women Erich watched from a safe distance, apathetic but equally fascinated. This woman, though, she was something else entirely.

And Erich Raeder was rather disturbed by it, truth be told.

"Then the information you have is incorrect."

Losing control is an insidious feeling. Erich was never much for control -- nothing like his father. He liked safety, the relative comfort of knowing that his bases were covered, but he's trained enough in interrogation to know what it feels like, how to avoid it. The Obergruppenführer was one of those men who furiously kept themselves four steps ahead to keep hold of everything they deemed theirs, that they wanted, and Erich had the stable, coveted position of being able to observe from up close. He knows what it's like just enough to prevent it, to use it to his own means, but the longer he combats Miss Crane the harder it gets.

She's good, he knows. Very good.

Better than him in the sense that there is this vulnerability there that Erich, male and Volksdeutscher, thirty-two with years of experience, medals and three bullet scars, two trophies in boxing and a Napola education, a stellar record and black silver-threaded uniform, could never hope to achieve. It gives her the edge. Not only that, but she turns the tables with one simple, masterful statement and on tape, there is nothing Erich can do without making their people look incompetent.

And just like that, he's lost this round. It happens in an instant but he recognises defeat when he sees it. When it's time to cut your losses and run.

(The Reich hates it -- for there is no honour in running, in surrender, for what greater honour is there? To die for the Fatherland?) 

It takes all of Erich's effort not to lose his composure. _Steady Erich_ rebounds in his head and he stares at her in muted disbelief, if only for a moment, before preparing his advance for round two.

Erich always carries a notebook. Two, in fact. A smaller leather bound thing that sits in his jacket pocket and is utilised in the rare moment where he feels that his memory is not accurate enough, and another, a bigger, visible thing for others. It was generally easier than beating it out of them. A tactic that Erich, given his current condition, was less inclined to rely upon since it was both incredibly discourteous and the simple, glaring fact that he simply did not have the heart to go through with it. It was one of the few ways that he could analyse inaccuracies in real time short of apt memorization of repeated questions.

And, additionally, when Erich stands up, it allows him to advertise the other reason for caution.

The fact that Erich is bigger, stronger, stood in a dark uniform in a dark room with an ethnically German name and German SS rank, serious and intimidating. It's offputting enough. Erich is not a big man by any means and less prone to violence than his counterparts, but here is easy competition. Here, Erich has everything and she has nothing. Stood across her from the table, he makes sure she knows that.

(back when Erich first stood beside the Obergruppenführer, this was one of the first things that was taught. Men who have something to lose may not be as exposed as someone who had nothing, but they are just as, if not more, desperate. Depending on the situation it's both effective and detrimental to be either one of these things -- so learning how to manipulate both is key. Erich had done so instinctively all his life but the Obergruppenführer, he made it into an art.)

And right here, right now, he held the immediate cards. It remained to be seen if she could manoeuvre herself into playing the long game.

She only looks up at him twice. Once to check if he was still there, and the second time to confirm that she had finished. This either suggested that his presence was intimidating or not intimidating enough, and Erich couldn't figure out which, not right this instant. Instead, he sat himself down again, this time further away and proceeded to read as casually as the situation allowed.

There was a lot you could learn from someone's handwriting. Miss Crane's was neat enough to suggest some education in penmanship, and the fact that she wrote on one side of the page suggested that she was unused to paper rationing, which likely meant some form of organised education. Erich read through the first-hand account with as much composure as he could mount, but also began to immediately regret his chosen position in the passing minutes. Sat like his, the arm which had suffered the uppermost bullet wound was beginning to hurt, the shredded tissue of his shoulder struggling to keep the strain, which in turn made his torso ache with such force he was having trouble breathing. By the time he had finished and let her know that she had, possibly deliberately, left out the day she had escaped, it was unbearable.

His tone probably confirmed it.

"Yes. Look, I'm... I'm sorry. I haven't... I haven't slept all night. I'm really very tired." It's a clever move, Erich admits. She might be truthful -- she looks it, but it only plays on Erich's own relative fatigue. It appears they have both had a rough night. "Are there many more questions you need to ask?"

He's about to admit defeat again, or maybe push harder, when the door opens. Erich knows instinctively that it's the Obergruppenführer. Nobody would have just walked in otherwise.

It's also likely deliberate. The Obergruppenführer rarely does anything without meaning.

"Sieg heil." 

It was always a good idea, for one to be where they might gauge the Obergruppenführer's facial reactions. It's one of the only ways, short of verbal suggestions that can be reliably responded to. The glance he gives Erich, which prompts him to return his attention back to Miss Crane, is all very calculated, and when the Obergruppenführer admits disappointment, Erich reacts with immediate excitement. This time, he actually has the ammunition to move, and over six years of conditioning makes it instinctive. Unpremeditated.

"We have received a request from the Japanese authorities for the immediate return of Miss Crain, sir."

And there it is. Whatever is back in the Pacific States must be more terrible than the two SS officers sat before her, because the woman responds with real, true fear. In that second, Erich almost -- before that deep, hidden part of Erich _screams_ at him in fury for even having the _audacity_ to dare showcase his own weaknesses so openly, _you Scheißdreck_  -- feels sorry for her. The feeling very nearly intensifies a thousandfold when the Obergruppenführer gives her that slow, victorious look. That one. The one in which told his victims that he has prevailed, that, of course, this would happen and it's planned, and there is nothing anyone can do because it's John Smith and this, he expected, he anticipated. His eyes said it even though he didn't smile.

That made it worse.

Erich knows. It made it infinitely worse.

Here, John Smith was faced with a man who had some, inestimable things and a woman who had nothing and he'd completely trapped them both in his grasp with the very same tactic. Joe Blake, wherever he happened to be now, had been another victim of this game. So was Lawrence to a lesser degree.

But then, Erich felt, that was nothing new. The sooner this Juliana Crane understood that the better. He hoped that it wouldn't be long.

Whether or not she lives for long after realising it, well.

Erich relaxed.

That was the Obergruppenführer's decision.

 

 


	2. angefressen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erich Raeder, Loyalty, Tea, and the Complicated Existence of Feelings. And Lawrence Klemm.

 

 

When Erich had first been deployed to the American SS, he had been assigned the Order and State Police of the American Main Security Office. The Obergruppenführer, still an unfamiliar figure, had put him there to build up expertise. Putting Erich in operational command of the Sicherheitspolizei and Ordnungspolizei units on behalf of his specifically chosen investigations had been part of a larger vetting process designed to both test and train the young up-and-coming twenty-six-year-old Sturmbannführer Raeder. And it had worked.

Now, nine years on, nearly ten, Erich had since exchanged the tan uniform of his street-working duties for the all-black uniform of the office upper-rigs, working in a different, but not entirely unfamiliar field.

Erich had been left with widespread authority but no real means to employ it. He no longer held direct command over any task forces or gangs of Brownshirts -- he had the authority to use them if he needed them, but no reason to, either personal or otherwise. For now, he served the Obergruppenführer directly, as opposed to before where he had been merely a means to accomplish smaller, more direct tasks -- a half-independent medium, a weapon of choice, or tool of trade. These days Erich did not walk alongside units as insurance; he was the one giving the orders with the understanding that the Obergruppenführer's resources were well-insured.

It made him useful in the sense that he was self-governing. While he was still directly under the Obergruppenführer, Erich was not attached to any particular department, but he was still ranked enough to wield some impact. Day to day, this strange and unprecedented situation was utilised as a buffer. At the Obergruppenführer's instruction, the various offices of the inneramerikanisch and foreign sectors all passed on information relating to his inquiries to the head office and from there, came Erich.

It was his job take these massive amounts of information and gather the necessary men and resources to make these pieces of separate information into one, complete report. Sometimes, the information coming in bypassed Erich entirely and went straight to the Obergruppenführer, either because it was drastically above his paygrade, or, he was simply too busy otherwise, but those days had become rare.

Especially after Heydrich.

It was simple, really. What concerned the Obergruppenführer went through the Sturmbannführer.

That's why there was a two-page document concerning Miss Juliana Crane and her recent outing to the former residence of Joe Blake in Flatbush in his possession.

Erich is not surprised. For a woman who came to them pleading for safety, she seems to have a steady habit of sniffing out danger.

The fact that it had taken her less than a day, however, did.

He had assumed, likely correctly so, that the Obergruppenführer had told her that Blake was in Berlin -- she had already asked Erich and got no helpful response, so it was only natural for her to try elsewhere. If he hadn't, well, the fact that she had come into contact with Blake's Other Girl meant that in all likelihood, she knew now. Women tended to be like that in his fairly limited experience. Often brutally direct.

He hadn't brought it to the Obergruppenführer by simple virtue of time management and the impending importance of the update from the Resistance car recovered from the Karen Vecchione shooting. He would have to, eventually, of course.

But right now...

Sturmbannführer Raeder sat behind his desk and did not sulk.

He didn't trust Miss Crane, of course. People that heavily involved with Resistance activities who were discovered and proceeded to _live_ , weren't to be. She was trouble, a strange foreign intruder in their carefully set lives.

Erich Raeder was not a man who hated often; at very best, he had deep-set objections to the occasional thing -- seafood, cigarette smoke, an untidy space or uniform -- but there was one thing above them all that never failed to set him off, and that was meddlers. He detested interlopers.

Juliana Crane was an interloper.

The fact that she had drifted back to Josef "Call Me Joe Blake" Heusmann only made him all the warier. Blake was another such example. Not an unpopular man within the American Sicherheitsdienst, but defiantly one on Erich's list of detestable things. The man confounded Erich. He flopped and floundered to the point of inefficiency and possessed nothing of the top-calibre temperament in which the SD required -- he had to be goaded into fulfilling his duties, and it was the universal opinion of the head office that he wasn't even worthy of the role of a Mitarbeiter. Clearly, however, the Obergruppenführer did not agree.

But to Erich, who had wilfully devoted his life and service to Obergruppenführer Smith, Joe Blake, who then proceeded to turn his back on their shared superior the second something didn't go his way, was a hair short of a traitor.

And Juliana Crane... The two of them together felt like throwing two sticks of smouldering dynamite inside a powder keg amidst a room of explosives.

She's already had a marker put on her. She wasn't the only one; a mere single entry in a long list of names in which the Obergruppenführer demanded they keep an eye on, but he suspects that there will be something else in the near future -- Erich is a relative master in the art of S _imply Pretending Otherwise_ and he knows that she's not going to shack up with some suitable Aryan bloke and play the good American-Reich Housewife anytime soon and, honestly, didn't blame her for it.

That's the thing. He really doesn't blame her.

He doesn't want her here; woman like that, she'd be best hiding it out in the Neutral Zone, if it weren't for the fact that the Resistance would hunt her down the moment she arrived, but at the same time he's left feeling... reserved. Unconcerned.

Still. Knowing the fact that she had attempted to reconnect with her oh-so-dangerous past despite being given a clean slate was nonetheless irritating -- and the fact that Obergruppenführer is probably counting on it does not help his mood. Erich was a sensible person; he understood that the Obergruppenführer had his means, and that said means did not involve him, but still. He's moping when the Obergruppenführer himself arrives at his standard nine-o'clock.

Erich sends a memo off to Lawrence to tell Captain Pierce to tell his department to get on the transcripts of the Japanese report from the Karen Vecchione shooting, grabs the day's agenda and other additional reports and schedules and waits by the elevator as is his custom, foul mood aside. He salutes when the elevator doors open and greets the man with the standard _good morning, Obergruppenführer_ and takes the bag with the standard _good morning, Erich_ but--

The realization hits Erich hard.

The Obergruppenführer looks... off.

And it's worse than it is normally. That, Erich can tell maybe fifteen minutes into their regular routine.

The Obergruppenführer was the bearer of a variety of frequent and often than not extreme, antagonistic moods. He wasn't the kind of man to take it out on his subordinates, thank the Führer, but it nonetheless affected the surrounding office like an atmosphere, a lingering feeling that brought along fewer phone calls and less interruptions, quieter conversations and careful footsteps. They happened on a regular enough basis that Erich, who spent most of his allotted work time in close company with the man, knew the lingering warning signs and, often than not, how to blunt their impact

But today, Erich's own mood wasn't too fantastic in itself to begin with. Between the woman and the fact that his abdomen was pulling incessantly, he had no reason to be.

It played off of the Obergruppenführer's own hostile condition. Sturmbannführer Raeder had finished setting out the list of appointments when he decided to act. After one too many observations that were shy from outright jibes, Erich set his mouth into a thin line and declared, plainly. "Tea, Obergruppenführer?"

The reaction was expected: the Obergruppenführer _glared_ , wordlessly accusing Erich of accusing him of misconduct, but he did not say it out loud because, even while irrational, he knows how ridiculous it would sound. Years before, when Erich was less reserved and not as studiedly nondemonstrative, inexperienced in using his natural gift for reading subtle cues of expression and posture and how to interpret said signs, the Obergruppenführer would have actually engaged him so that he might acquire an emotional punching bag. These days, that was much harder and very, very rare.

Erich still had much to learn, but he'd picked up more than enough tricks of the trade to avoid such a thing happening again. Since that is what the Obergruppenführer desired of him, foul mood notwithstanding, he felt it was a win-win.

The Obergruppenführer made a rueful twist of the mouth, and while he did not dismiss Erich, the Sturmbannführer turned on a heel before he might engage and effort to decline.

Of course, the man would calm down eventually. It was a simple fact. The Obergruppenführer would not allow himself to be swayed by unmerited sentiment, not for long; it was actually a note of credit, that the man allowed himself to be emotional around his personnel. Something that Erich both found incredibly engaging and yet terrifying in one overwhelming go.

At any rate, he was less riled when Erich returned. On one hand, that was good; very good. On the other...

Erich realised cagily that the Obergruppenführer was now calm enough to perceive his own brooding mood. When he set down the platter of over-indulgent tea things, he could only brace himself.

"Did I do something to offend you, Erich?" The Obergruppenführer asks, snippily, but not without genuine curiosity.

Erich winces when the strip of damaged pectoral muscle stretches, sending a displeased pang of white-hot pain along his torso. He couldn't disguise it; he didn't even attempt to try. Instead, Erich leant against the side of the desk just so that both arms could brace themselves. The alternative was to crumple to the floor in an undignified tangle of clenched limbs and agony. That, suffice to say, was to be avoided at all costs.

"Not you, sir." Was the simple, winded, answer.

It's technically not an outright lie, and if the look that crosses the Obergruppenführer's face before he brings the rim of his cup to his mouth is any indication, he believed it.

 

 

Another part of Erich's job was to personally investigate matters on the Obergruppenführer's behalf. Such incidences were rare, but when they did happen, they were usually very important.

The how's and why's were often left to Erich's own incentive. The Obergruppenführer chose to treat it as both a training exercise and a private matter; they were off the books so that his desires might be met in a more isolated manner, but it also allowed Erich to develop his own expertise and try it against new and different circumstances. He was still an Intelligence Officer by training, and the general understanding was that it was good for him, to keep practising. When Erich was younger, Smith had jokingly referred to it as playtime. Erich at the time had been less than amused. He still wasn't to this day.

But he did not mind, usually. He was good at his job, and it was no inconvenience on his part.

Today, though...

Reinhard Heydrich smirks when he sees Erich come through the door of the interrogation room. Pleased. Dangerous, He liked their little discussions. Erich, unquestionably, did not.

Erich, unquestionably, did not.

It takes an amazing amount of effort not to rush forward and strangle the bastard. Or simply shoot him dead. Erich is not stupid, he knows it won't pay for the three bullets and seven separate blood transfusions, it won't pay for Hauptaturmführer Lautz, it won't pay for Connolly's deception or the treason of Rudolph Wegener and the attempt against the Führer, but... He breathes in, dismisses the thought. He is not the kind of man to enjoy revenge. He's the kind of man who follows orders.

"Oberst-Gruppenführer," Erich sits at the other side of the table. "Tell me about South America."

Something unpleasant creeps up against Erich's back when the man looks at him. The Obergruppenführer is one thing. Heydrich is... something else entirely.

The fact that he can still manipulate the Obergruppenführer is enough of a warning. It's the reason why he refrains from personally intervening, short of keeping his cards close to his chest and ensuring that his presence held maximum impact.

Erich, by comparison, was a far weaker opponent. Out of the six meetings they had previously held, only two had been worthwhile. Three had been periods of relentless mockery and one had been devoted to undermining Erich's loyalty. The latter unsettled Erich to the point that he'd immediately signed out in order to decompress. He refrained from getting black out drunk that night, but he'd gotten close.

But there is one thing, one simple, underlying thing, that made Erich more suited to dealing with this _snake_. One that Erich utilises with the foolhardy, proud understanding that it can't get any worse while simultaneously ignoring the scars on the skin of his knuckles and the way his right ring finger was a few millimetres offset at the joint.

 

 

"You look... cheery," Lawrence Klemm notes with his trademark ease. It's part in jest and part in idle concern.

Erich drops off the two stacks of files, one about Miss Crane and one about a potential HJ trip to Buenos Aires and various foothill pathways amongst the Andean Mountains and he can feel the Major's eyes on him as he does so.

It's been like this for as long as Erich can remember. Lawrence Klemm, American SS instead of German and therefore _Major_ , was a lingering epidemic, seemingly intent on killing Sturmbannführer Raeder slowly -- a pair of bright blue eyes that burned a target into Erich's back, a treacherous presence that got under his skin, constricting his chest until his breath come out short and thin. A distraction, one that persisted, and often that not succeeded in, redirecting Erich's attention by the infuriating virtue of simply _existing_.

At first, Erich had tried ignoring him. He simply hadn't been interesting enough, he supposes, to merit attention; just another man in uniform, but Lawrence -- that bastard -- he was nothing if not unappeasable. Brilliant, in his line of work; dependable and a man who held his work to a high regard, but by God was he persistent. Dig into the average officer and the man under the uniform is never far behind. Lawrence had kept on digging at Erich, over and over again until Erich had snapped, but it didn't dissuade him. If anything, it was simply a reward for all of Lawrence's attention seeking.

Erich had long since given in. Now, he wouldn't call him his friend, per say -- what could they call it, aside from heavy ladened camaraderie? But they knew each other. They relied, often than not, on their shared loyalty and the quiet mutual understanding that complementary officers partook, which meant looking away when it was important but sitting close by just by, all the same.

It was _there_ and, Erich feared, it was _obvious_.

But today, prickly after facing Heydrich, aching from old injury, feeling indignant and angry, Erich spun around on the heels of his boots and declared, gruffly.

"I need a drink, how about you?"

Lawrence grinned.

 

 


	3. telefongespräch.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erich meets with an old acquaintance.

 

 

Cheif Inspector Kido was another visitor who arrived both unexpectedly and silently.

It is not the first time Erich Raeder has met Kido Takeshi, however. Nor is it in any way an undesirable experience. Raeder would rather it never happened at all simply for administrative reasons, but it was hardly calamitous -- nothing like the top brass from Berlin, who came in seemingly endless droves and halted practically everything of professional importance. 

No, Raeder will admit, as few interactions with the Kempeitai Inspector as he had experienced, Kido was the kind of individual he preferred. A man who valued honour, reliability, and self-sufficiency. All good things. Quiet, too. He did not disturb.

That isn't to say Erich likes the idea of the man like that sneaking up on him, though.

Not just on Erich, either. Seemingly no one in the entire building knows Kido is even in the country until he arrives at their front doorstep. Little breaches of security like this are common unless they actually get past the threshold. Angry citizens who have family members or friends falling afoul of the State Police, the odd political creature, the potential Semite would-be-assassin -- they hit the front door where they could be dealt with, mundane as they were, and that is where they generally remained.

No, it was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for.

Kido sends shockwaves up the entire chain of command until it ends at Erich. Erich, who is stood alone in his office with his shirt undone, stood in front of the mirror on the inside of the tallest cabinet so he might make the casual inspection of the marks left behind from past enemies and heavy-handed surgeon alike. It's dark, it's quiet, and with the Obergruppenführer out doing... something not privy to his aide's knowledge, Erich has the run of High Command himself until the man returns. Nothing new there, but today has been a slow one, grey and heavy. It left the entire office in a state of passive serenity.

So Erich, his regular workday duties already accomplished by virtue of having no one to otherwise wait on, decided to spend some time on self-reflection.

The worst one is the shoulder. Erich had been told so often that he likes to think he can remember; the bullet wasn't life threatening but it went in awkward, jammed at an angle against the curve of his shoulder blade, bloody and messy and it took the surgeon three times to fish it out. The resulting mess is a horrifying mayhem of scar tissue. One that hurts to the touch; worse than the other one, which had him in surgery for well over fifteen hours. 

His abdomen scar was the one that made walking difficult. That was... mostly dealt with, so long as he did not overdo it. All that took was some moderation on his part. Adaptation. Walking a little quicker, shortening the pace. He'd figured that out before he actually left the hospital -- he had to, otherwise, he wouldn't've gotten out when he did.

And then there is the other one. That one fucked everything up -- there's a note in his file, for that one. It's the one that brought with it a promotion but also a severe impediment. He would be idling for a while because of that little spot of bother. 

He's not sure who made the decision, thinking back. He had his suspicions, but... Well. It would be unspeakably rude to ask. 

Erich doesn't remember much of any of it -- he is physically incapable, but he often catches himself trying anyway. Did they throw his old uniform away or did they save it? He never got those ribbons back. Are three bullets, seven blood transfusions, fifteen hours and forty-seven minutes under the knife and god knows how many days and nights and hours spent unconscious, and then half-lucid, furious and frustrated at the fact that paralysis can be caused by blood clots, enough to merit the jump from a 3rd class wound badge straight to a 1st class? Or was the Obergruppenführer feeling apologetic? Where they planning to have buried him SS or with the rest of his family? There was talk about that. When he wasn't looking too good.

Talk about a lot of things, he recalls with some difficulty. Hadn't he threatened to end it once or twice? The pain had been unspeakable. It still oftentimes was.

This is what Erich Raeder does, these days, when he's alone. He stands there and he looks at the damage and he tries to remember.

Until that is, Lawrence comes walking in without knocking and Erich very nearly shoots him dead for the intrusion. He wouldn't have minded normally; Lawrence is Lawrence, and as soldiers, there is no sense of personal boundaries so long as one does not linger -- the whole building shares only three locker rooms, after all -- but this is... different. It's a vulnerability that Erich has not shared with anyone. It feels like a trespass. An intrusion on his biggest uncertainties. And that is unsettling.

Thankfully, his firearm is on the desk and not on his hip, which simplifies things. The knife isn't, but Erich... 

No, he sneers, eyes lingering on the uppermost scar on his right shoulder between the warning glare he throws in Lawrence's direction and the resigned, frustrated grimace of slow progress at his own reflection. Never.

"We have a situation," Lawrence declares, rebounding from the half-second hesitation with ease. A trademark ability of any apprentice of Smith, Erich knows. He doesn't say anything about the state of undress, and his eyes don't leave Erich's face as the Sturmbannführer mechanically works through re-fastening each individual button with as little upper body movement as possible. "There is an..." The man's eyes flicker down to the slice of paper held between his index and thumb finger. "An Inspector Kido?"

" _Kee_ ," Erich mumbles automatically, without thinking, drawing out the vowels. "Not Ki." He breathes in. Buttons his collar up. Out. Spells out the foreign syllables between clenched teeth. " _Kido_."

Then he blinks, looks up from his handgun to Lawrence's face.

"Takeshi Kido?" A nod. "Takeshi Kido of the San Francisco Kempeitai?" Another, slightly more alarmed nod. Erich pauses, lets his jaw go slack. Then he askes, his voice edged with confusion. "What is Inspector Kido doing in New York?"

Lawrence gives him a flat look. That kind. The one that says _how should I know?_  A common expression within their day to day routine. Erich blinks again, tries to force up some kind of respectable outrage, flips his collar up around his throat, and utterly fails on the former endeavour while succeeding quite admirably on the latter with the first try. 

This is... not good, he decides, between crossing both ends of his tie together and looping the top under the other near his neck, hand coming to rise just above his nose before the strain kicks in and he has to drop his arm. The Obergruppenführer won't be anywhere far from a telephone; Erich knew the man's worktime habits back and forth to know that he never will be, unless he can help it -- but such matters require immediate intervention and must be _dealt with._ That, he knows.

And Kido? Erich is used to Japanese visitors; lots of them travelling America, particularly New York, either on business or otherwise, but Kido is not... The Kempeitai do not venture beyond the border, at least, not any above the rank of  _Junshikan_.

He turns towards Lawrence as he sets his jacket straight.

"Call the Obergruppenführer." He gives the order, momentarily distracted by the glint of his handgun against the weak sunlight, the way his hand still fits comfortably around the grip when he hefts it up, the weight of it, familiar. Lawrence makes a noise at the back of his throat, one that had _nothing_ to do with their current situation and it merited a disciplinary glare from his counterpart -- one that did nothing in the way of punishment, either, but did remind the Major of the ground in which they currently stood, if nothing else. 

Lawrence's gaze flicks up from Erich's hand to his face again, a mask of rapt innocence filtering over his own expression. "Already done, he will arrive momentarily."

Erich set his handgun back into its holster. The weight makes the strain against his belt lopsided, but it's evidence of its existence. That felt better.

"Did the Inspector give any reason for his arrival?"

A sneer formed its way onto the curve of the major's mouth. Not a good one, either -- he was annoyed.

"No," he replies, airly, but with an undertone that did indeed suggest profound -- and understandable -- irritation. "He has an important request for the Obergruppenführer but retains the opinion that it is for his consideration only." The fact that Kido was an important member of the Kempeitai was probably the only reason why such an opinion remained strictly enforced, Erich knew. He fought the need to roll his eyes. Lawrence was a straight minded man. Oftentimes it worked in his favour, sometimes, however, it did not. 

"Watch the elevators." Erich gave the order easily, felt the shift of action like a second nature. "No word of this out of high command, and no further than the essential staff." 

It's nothing new, really, but it needs to be said, out loud. For the semblance of order and hierarchy must be upheld, especially with the Obergruppenführer's absence, and while they can do this silently, unspoken, it helps. Erich tightens the knot of his tie and clasps shut his holster, checks everything is correctly straightened in the mirror before shutting the cabinet door and making his leave. 

Inspector Kido has been brought up to the office level with a nearby guard. Lots of different kinds of those around here, but this one wears the grey uniform of the security police. Lawrence takes a different route so that he might not intersect; there is a service elevator for non-essential staff, designed so that the main one does not become overused -- that the seemingly fluid sense of movement for VIPs is not undermined, a fickle little ruling, but one that is not necessarily a problem when you find yourself satellite to the most senior officer in the building. It means that Erich, aside from the guard, approaches Kido alone. 

If this wasn't the office of all places, the heart of the American Reich Commissariat, Erich would have at least bowed his head. Instead, he gave a slight pause after standing at a halt, stood to his full height, and raised his arm one sharp single movement without the additional fanfare of heels or otherwise. That would be for later.

"Cheif Inspector," Erich greeted.

Kido, when he turned around from his inspection of the New York skyline, gave only a slight indication as to that he recognised Erich. Much was the same. The glasses were new, the suit the same, a different haircut but otherwise, the same face -- the same expression. The little not-smile, which looked off yet prompted the same gut feeling. Years ago, Erich had the suspicion that the man was laughing at him. Now, he sees, it's just the way he was. 

As to what Kido sees, goes unsaid. The inspector's expression is flat and unknowing. He does, however, glance down once at Erich's uniform to identify his rank. Erich wonders, before the thought is pushed away for later, what he expected. He himself hadn't changed much, he knew that. Fatter, maybe, if nothing else -- although he'd lost weight since the ambush. He was less prone to agitated nerves. He knew that. More composed. 

The man bows, if only slightly. "Sturmbannführer."

He's wearing a jacket and coat, and Erich is immediately annoyed that no one has come to relieve the man of them. The internal rebuke flashing through his mind before he can even make to respond, _Courtesy!_ It, oddly enough, says in his father's voice; the same one that shouted about eye contact and straightened shoulders, the qualities of a _Good Man_. He turns on instinct, looks down the hallway until one man, who was stood off trying not to look conspicuous despite the fact his entire purpose was to intervene in times like these. Erich's makes sure to catch eye.

Something must show on his face because the man stumbles before he can begin to walk over.

Sturmbannführer Erich Raeder had a particular set mind on the idea of fate. It was how he had grown up. His father, accommodating and yet oh so severe, bearer of many a uniform and customary packages of emotional blackmail in silent apology for leaving him and his mother alone in New England aside from those four times a year -- Admiral Raeder (not _that_ one) famous within the ranks for his stubborn insistence to _deal with_ things, very good at his job, very dependable and reliable, The Good Officer, had a very choice things to say on the matter of fate. None of them good. 

(the most memorable one, Erich remembers with every fibre of his being, raised on it, a quatrain of his childhood worth more than scripture;  _good men don't wait for luck, they take what little they may have into their hands and they make something of it, use it for something better._

_Never compromise. Never hold back. Take what you have and Fight for it, my man._

Erich had never mentioned it -- his mother, maybe, who can be sure? But this attitude is what made Commander Raeder popular with the Reich after the war. The irony is not lost on them. Derek Raeder had aimed all of his cynical vitriol at the enemy for years, the same enemy who then gave praise for it after they'd knocked the legs out from under him. That kind of thing left impressions. It was one of the things that stopped Erich from sincerely embracing the Reich.)

By virtue of upbringing, Erich is much of the same, but even he has to wonder.

And wonder alone, for what could they really say between them, he and Kido? They, two very similar men on two, very different sides, the body of a resistance Semite between them, the lives of maybe half a dozen others within the reports. One single mission that drafted both ends of the continent against a common enemy, ended with a funeral and the quiet appreciation for like-minded sentiments. And praise, on Erich's end. The Obergruppenführer had been very pleased.

There is a time and a place for such things, he decides. Neither of them were now.

"Welcome to New York," Erich gave an ever so slight tip of the chin and launched himself into a non-apologetic explanation, fully aware that Kido is likely conscious of everything regardless. "However, I regret to inform you that we were not expecting an appointment. Obergruppenführer Smith is currently engaged elsewhere, but is to return shortly." Pausing to let the nearby Untersturmführer offer to take the man's over things, Erich tactfully glanced at the nearby wall clock and tried to determine when "momentarily" might possibly be. "Until then, if you would remain here until he arrives... Untersturmführer Harris," he glanced at the older man, designating him by name. "Would be most happy to acquire anything you may need in the meantime."

Kido gave him another small little nod, Erich straightened. 

"If you will excuse me."

"Of course." 

Ever the polite one, Erich remembered. 

 

Deleting an entire record of one small meeting may seem like no difficult task, but when said meeting takes place unexpectedly, without explanation or prior warning, there are... signals, in which become triggered and must be removed. Like a cancerous tumour, perhaps.

Or three bullets.

If it was anything else, Erich would have enlisted the help of his regulars. Lieutenant Koebel, Lieutenant O'Neill and Major Wilkes all held positions of the various branches within the SD that made investigative matters all the easier to access, but Erich had no real need for them specifically, and this wasn't the kind of order that went well with... others. Orders like these, that start with "Erich, I want" or "Erich, There is" or "Erich, I need", always are. So he undertakes this task alone. By himself.

The entire SS Headquarters wasn't just one building. The whole complex ran from First Avenue on the west, East 42nd Street to the south, East 48th Street on the north and the East River to the east, which meant not only running through most of an entire 505 ft building, but also checking in three other separate structures in order to get to specific records and ledgers. It is not the first time Erich has ever removed a specific detail from the law, but it's not an identical operation -- different situations involve different offices, and the fact that Cheif Inspector Kido Takeshi of the San Francisco Kempeitai is involved means that there are a few areas in which Erich has never dealt with in person until today.

It would be rather thrilling if it the whole thing wasn't comparable to a ten-kilometre exercise.

From the building's internal security to the office in charge of said security, to all those in Department A-1  _Administration_ and Department A-2 _Law and Legal_ , then to a few offices in the Foreign Intelligence Service. Then it's back up to the very top of the tower where the blokes in Signals operate, so he can ensure that nothing has been sent off -- or is going to be sent off -- over the radio. Then it's down into where they keep surveillance and the removal of specific timestamps on the CCTV, which for an entire building consisting of over 39-stories and maybe a dozen or so hundred different rooms and hallways, takes nearly one and a half hours. Then it's back to the Obergruppenführer's office to remove the recording equipment (why the person who invented this machine designed it so ripping close to everything out was the only one could acquire the tapes, he cannot fathom) and from there, after painstakingly putting the Obergruppenführer's desk drawer back together, Erich personally takes said tapes and tucks them into the inner pocket of his jacket for... well. He'll drop them off when it's appropriate.

Until then, the audio recording of said non-existent meeting joins him on the trip to the garages, where Erich carefully goes through the day's rota in order to both locate and remove all evidence of the car that took Kido back to the Japanese embassy, short of taking it out into the nearest empty car lot and burning it out. He'll have to go through it again tomorrow to remove the car's return in the ledger, but that's fine. That can be dealt with later.

Other than that one little issue, by the time Erich has finished, Kido might as well as never entered the headquarters in the first place. 

Erich arrived home sometime after eleven. It's late, so past his regular hour that the guards actually stop the car because it's considered an unexpected arrival. Most of the upper sphere of the SS and other members of the so-called American Sippengemeinschaft lived in neighbourhoods like these. This one, in New York's Long Island, was home to most people who had families or preferred the classic American suburban lifestyle and therefore had the appearance of being open and friendly, but in reality had an entire battalion of former Führerbegleitkommando protecting its boundaries. If Erich had had his way he'd be living in the city, but as he had a father who merited the same protection -- even if he was in Virginia 10 months out of the year, and a mother refused to be relocated, he had to make do.

That meant getting half-blinded by a torch and a few seconds of irritation while the photograph in his ID was matched to his face before being let on through. 

The house is quiet when he gets in -- still, which meant his mother had retired for the night. His dinner had been left out, though, covered and, Erich lifts it up with his free hand, casserole. Coffee too, a full cafetiere, which was slightly warmer, and that meant his mother had likely prepared it before going to bed. 

He would take a cup of the stuff upstairs with him, but the food... Erich wasn't hungry, not now. He eyed the dog bowl, sat off to one side, ready to be put out in the morning, and made a split decision right there. Not all of it. Just enough to look like Erich had at least attempted to eat. He'd do so properly tomorrow.

Before he can settle behind his desk, however, there's the decent stuff; the single malt he'd gotten for his 21st, the older one, damper and earthier, and Erich drops a generous amount into his coffee before securing it back inside the cabinet. 

A few reports had made their way into his office, but nothing too interesting. The house lady (mother refuses to call Claire a maid) drops them off periodically throughout the day. They're nothing revealing. Barely interesting.

Erich caught the phone the second it rang.

"Do you remember when doing one's duty was just smiling through a broken forearm?" The voice on the other end of the line gave no chance for any interruption, and the Sturmbannführer levelled out both shoulders, shifting in his seat, when the effect of the caller's vowels, the manner of his speech, became apparent and he put a name, and a face, to the accent.

"Oh, I remember," Erich replied, trying to sound nonplussed. "Not that it really matters."

Lieutenant Hauge audibly relaxed. 

"There's been an interesting development."

"Oh?"

"A Gruppenfuher Keller has taken command of all the Einzengruppen in our region."

That drew Erich short. He did not recognise the name; German, he knows, but he cannot put any reference to it other than nationality. Gruppenfuher suggested that he ought to, all things considered, especially if he had apparently acquired some of the most effective troops the SD had to offer on the continent.

Known as the _Kanadier Wilde Hunde_ , the SS Special Purpose Operational Group D was currently stationed just on the border between the Neutral Zone and the Canadian Reich Commissariat. Officially, it's purpose there was to keep the border between Saskatoon and the untamed wilderness of Neutral Canada protected, but Erich knew the full truth. In reality, the Einsatzkommandos stationed in that chunk of forest were some of the most ruthless sons-of-bitches to currently grace the American SS, known simultaneously for both their loyalty and inability to follow orders. They were effective -- severely so, but they were also dangerous, and their presence in civilised society often to caused political problems.

At this current moment, they were "investigating resistance activities", it meant sporadic dives into the Neutral Zone -- he hopes in disguise -- to burn out former US and Canadian Army remnants, and it usually involved occasional attacks on outlier settlements.

And if anyone asks, it's never the Reich. Naturally.

The Obergruppenführer used one Einsatztrupp in particular on an infrequent basis. Lieutenant Hauge had been a part of this little gang of misfits for nearly ten years; he'd taken command of it (violently, Erich recalls) nearly two years ago. Since then, casualties on his end had dropped and reports of bloodshed on the other had almost quadrupled. 

Heydrich, in particular, had a fondness Hauge and his lot. Not that it had done Heydrich any good -- when the latter killed each and every single one of his men with nothing but a trench knife and, begrudgingly, in the end, a rifle. Alone.

Hauge was many things, but tolerable of Germans he was not. He accepted the Obergruppenführer primarily because he was American, but he also understood that the man was bigger, powerful, and that while Hauge was young and strong, the Obergruppenführer himself in charge through more than just brawn and aggression. Such respect never lasted, of course; the Obergruppenführer had to take out a few days each year to fully remind the upstart of it, had to regularly put him back in his place, as he often did with his pet projects. Joe Blake was a similar problem originating from the same source, but unlike Blake, Hauge was more proactive. The Lieutenant was willing to cut his way upward, he held grudges, and stepped on anything and anyone on his path of destructive potential. He needed management, and when that could not be reliably given on a frequent enough basis, the wilderness was a reliable diversion from upsetting the system. 

But he got results. Despite appearances, Lieutenant Hauge was very good at his job, and if he was concerned enough to inform Erich of this... upset, then something was indeed wrong. 

"Has he ordered anything of you recently?" Erich asked. He made sure to keep his tone as affectionless and regulated as possible. He knew all too well. Hauge was unpredictable and prone to outbursts; if he snapped over the phone, Erich could forget about having a proper conversation and he'd get nowhere.

A slight pause, but one of reflection not hesitation.

"Nothing of any importance," Hauge replied. "Numbers, mostly. Units. Manuninitions. He's a Ald-..." A sigh. Erich rolled his eyes. _Adolfie_  was the word. A derogatory term. One that was met with high disregard in polite society. The fact that he was willingly kerbing his language either meant weariness, or it meant improvement. Erich was sceptical of the latter. "A _German._ From Berlin."

"Berlin?"

"I've got his postal code." Beat. "Don't worry, precious - I used my manners, asked nicely."

Erich closed his eyes. The fact that Hauge had the mental capacity to not only recognise something amiss but then dig for information, in such a way what he succeeded without causing alarm, only proved that he was of Smith's preferred calibre. Even if he was an offensive most of the time, the promise was there. Barely. Under the blood and attitude. 

Germans were not uncommon, especially as officers of such rank, but if he's from Berlin, and of rank, then that was... interesting, and not in a good way. On one hand, it could be one of theirs, but on the other, Hauge and the rest of his Einsatzkommando unit were of great interest of Heydrich -- and it wasn't made common knowledge that he and his men had sided with the Obergruppenführer, as open as this matter was, to begin with. That was deliberate. Heydrich apparently was not alone in his doings. That meant others might continue on from where he left off.

"Anything else?"

"No, for now." Hauge was about to say something else before an unexpected interruption on his end caused a break in candance, and without warning, the man shouted a series of expletives, with such volume, that Erich flinched and instinctively brought the receiver away from his ear. The line went dead almost immediately after. He stared at it, blinking in surprise, perplexed.

Stunned, he set the phone down and returned to his coffee. It had gone cold in his absence. Erich sighed, downed it anyway.

He'd inform the Obergruppenführer in the morning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Said mission involving Erich and Kido will feature in an upcoming little thing, maybe. 
> 
> Also, Hauge is an OC. And a major asshole. He's tame in this chapter, but when he does show up, there will be violence. And language.


End file.
